


Of Mice and Murphy

by TheWordsInMyHead



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bellarke are pinning idiots, Clarke Griffin & John Murphy Friendship, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Sarcastic Murphy for the win, This really is just pure ridiculousness, but i love it, witch!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 10:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordsInMyHead/pseuds/TheWordsInMyHead
Summary: “Did I do magic?”“You’re the one who should know!” Murphy shouts back, losing his good sense of humor as he takes in the suddenly very large apartment around him.“I didn’t— yesterday with Bellamy— I just wanted to see if—” Clarke stumbles over her words as she sets him down on the table, looking for all the world like she might faint at any moment, which is not a fucking option. One of them is a fraction of their normal size, and it isn’t her, so she’s just going to have to keep her shit together.He's about to tell her that in no uncertain terms when it suddenly occurs to him, which Bellamy, she must have been referring to. Bar Bellamy, otherwise known as the guy she’s been flirting with no gains for months.“Oh, fuck me, you weren’t trying to cast a love spell?”
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Of Mice and Murphy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meyers1020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meyers1020/gifts).



> I wrote this several months ago at this point for Meyers birthday, but I hate titles with a passion so it's only getting posted now lol. 
> 
> Happy Birthday again Meyers. Thanks for being the best writing bestie I could ever ask for

_Crash. Bang. Thump._

A series of loud noises ring out around his room, nearly shaking the walls with their intensity. Murphy shoves his face more fully into his pillow, cursing the world, his neighbor above him, and everyone else who thinks it’s necessary to make this much noise. _Ever_. But especially when living in an apartment with very thin walls. It's just rude. 

There's a particularly loud noise, nearly a screech, and Murphy flops onto his back in defeat. _What the fuck is she doing?_ Moving furniture? Her apartment is the exact same shitty square as his; there are no other layout options; how the hell doesn’t she know that already? 

Another thump sounds about him, and he is forced to consider the fact that she’s doing this vindictively. She knows that he works late and sleeps during the day. Or rather, she should. She hangs out at the bar where he cooks more nights than she should, flirting with one of the bartenders. He doesn’t know why— why she keeps coming back to eat their shitty food and drink their overpriced drinks to talk to someone without ever actually making a move, or why she would want to punish him. 

Maybe he’s just cursed— his life so far hasn’t done much to dissuade him of the notion— or maybe, she’s just an asshole. He’s said all of a dozen words to her in the year since she’s moved in, she shouldn't have a grudge against him, but that must be the reason. Why else would someone needlessly move _all_ their furniture back and forth at two in the afternoon on a random Tuesday? 

_How does she even have this much furniture?_ He cannot stress enough how small this place is. He should have just continued living in his car, the threat of frostbite be damned. It's not like this was that much of an upgrade, and at least then he could easily move whenever someone pissed him off. 

He stews in bed, picturing all the different ways that he could make sure that she is silent from now on. Just picturing; he’s not _actually_ going to enact any of his revenge fantasies— he’s a sleep-deprived asshole with anger issues, not a serial killer. He's not even going to actually say anything to her. Interacting with people is generally not worth the effort, but then he starts to smell smoke, and well, he doesn’t have enough faith in her competence to not burn their entire building to the ground. 

She has the look of a privileged princess who’s never cooked a day in her life written all over her. 

So with a long, drawn-out sigh, he pushes himself out of bed, pulls on an old sweatshirt, and moves towards his front door. The smoke is even thicker when he gets out into the hall, leaving him breathless and even more irritable. If he was okay with inhaling copious amounts of smoke, he’d still be smoking a pack a day. 

Letting out another curse, he pulls the neck of the sweater over his mouth and starts to stumble his way down the stairs towards her apartment, thankful that he’s passed through this building enough times in the pitch darkness thanks to broken lights to be able to navigate it mostly blind. 

If he were a different person in a different, less horrible apartment, he’d be concerned about running into another concerned neighbor, but as it is, he knows not to worry. In this place, he’s the gold standard when it comes to being a concerned citizen, which really is more tragic than a 24-year-old woman not being able to successfully cook her own grilled cheese sandwiches. 

The patheticness of it all hits him as he approaches her door, making him contemplate the validity of just letting her and everyone else in the building burn for their incompetence. Standing in the hall, he considers just walking out the front door and never coming back, but then a yawn overtakes his body, and his feet continue to shuffle forward. While he doesn’t particularly care about anything in his apartment or anyone in this building, he would really like to catch a couple more hours of sleep, and that will be much more attainable if he has a bed to go back to. 

With the promise of more sleep at his fingertips, Murphy ignores the instincts screaming at him that nothing good comes from trying to be a good person and approaches the door. He knocks once and then again more intently, but the noise that was merely bothersome on the floor above is overbearing here. _What the fuck is she doing in there?_

He hears her fire alarm going off— an impressive feat considering he didn’t think they actually worked—and decides to say screw it to being polite. He’s not polite, but even if he was, he’s doing more than enough dragging himself out of bed to help her. He swings the door open, ridiculing her for her stupidity in leaving her door unlocked in this kind of neighborhood, and steps inside. 

There’s a shout, high pitched and shrill in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, telling him to get out, but it’s too late. He has a brief second to take in the space, cleared out of furniture with a circle of lit candles sitting on the shitty scratched up floor, and then there’s a bright flash of light. 

Instinctively, he raises his arm to try and protect his eyes, but it’s no use; the light, the sound, the rush of air are all too much, and he finds himself losing balance as he steps back, trying to escape. He hits the ground hard. The air is knocked out of his lungs as the world around him goes from too bright to almost completely black. He struggles to remain conscious, fighting just like he always has against the forces threatening to pull him under until finally, the ringing stops, and he feels stable enough to open his eyes again. 

He opens them slowly, unsure of what he’s going to find but most definitely not expecting what he does. Sitting beside him is the largest red pump he’s ever seen and then beside that is an umbrella the size of a skyscraper. He looks around some more, hesitancy filling his movements along with morbid curiosity. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Oh god,” he hears from far up above him, and he knows in that moment that he should have just stayed in bed. “What did I do?” 

“I don’t know,” Murphy responds in full sarcastic mode, filled with an odd sense of peace at the panic in Clarke’s giant blue eyes as she crouches down in front of him. “What _did_ you do?” 

“I was just—” she looks around helplessly as though the fucking melted candle might have the answer she can’t seem to find. “Here,” she says, picking him up, none too gently, and then spinning around with the kind of speed that threatens to upend the fries he had for dinner before crashing after work. 

As she carries him through the room, he catches sight of the chalk circle on the ground and is instantly filled with understanding, “What the hell is that? Did you cast a spell on me?! Did you do magic?” 

“Did I do magic?” 

“You’re the one who should know!” Murphy shouts back, losing his good sense of humor as he takes in the suddenly very large apartment around him. 

“I didn’t— yesterday with Bellamy— I just wanted to see if—” Clarke stumbles over her words as she sets him down on the table, looking for all the world like she might faint at any moment, which is not a fucking option. One of them is a fraction of their normal size, and it isn’t her, so she’s just going to have to keep her shit together. 

He's about to tell her that in no uncertain terms when it suddenly occurs to him, which Bellamy, she must have been referring to. Bar Bellamy, otherwise known as the guy she’s been flirting with no gains for months.

“Oh, fuck me, you weren’t trying to cast a love spell?” he asks, not sure whether the idea is horrifying or hilarious. The answer is both. He lets out a laugh that most definitely is hysterical. He's the size of a fucking grasshopper, he’s eaten carrots bigger than him; he could live in his shoe, and he’d have about as much space as he does in his apartment. 

“No!” she cries out in horror, “No— with Bellamy? No!” 

“Oh god, why am I surrounded by idiots?” 

“It wasn’t a love spell...” she tells him eventually, twisting back and forth while avoiding his eyes in a way that makes him think that it was _exactly_ a fucking love spell. He should have just let her burn the place down. “I just wanted to know if he was interested... if he would even be interested.” 

For a second, all he does is stare at her, hoping that she’ll still be able to feel the full weight of his judgment despite his size. “There’s a very, very easy way to figure that out; one that doesn’t require an entire aisle of candles or I don’t know, a fucking spell! What even happened?” 

She looks at him blankly for a moment before suddenly coming back to herself and reaching for something behind him. The something turns out to be an old leather-bound book, the exact kind of thing you’d expect would turn someone into a midget. 

“Ugh, I fucked up the wording!” 

“Don’t you think that’s something you should have looked a little closer at first!” 

“I didn’t think it would actually work!” 

“Well, it did; congratulations, you’re a witch. You can head off to Hogwarts in September, but first, change me the fuck back.” 

Clarke looks away from him, tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that makes him cringe. He’s so not going to like what she’s got to say. “I can’t.” 

“Nope, nope, that is not an option. Snap your fingers, do a little dance, spin around three times, whatever needs to happen to fix this.” 

“I can’t,” she repeats, only this time all traces of embarrassment are gone, and she’s scowling at him. “Did you miss the part where I didn’t know if I’d even cast anything or maybe the part where I couldn’t get the wording right? I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“It’s not like that stopped you the first time,” Murphy mutters back darkly, leaning against a ball of crumpled-up paper. 

“Would you like me to accidentally turn you into a toad? How attached are you to your hair??” Murphy scowls back at her in return, but she doesn’t let that deter her. “Exactly. You don’t want me to mess this up even more, so just sit tight and give me a bit to figure out how to do this right.”

“Find one of your more competent witchy friends to do it then,” Murphy suggests, suddenly not feeling all that confident in her ability to not make the situation worse. 

“I don’t have any _witchy_ friends,” she responds scathingly, but there’s an undertone of loneliness to it that makes him think he should feel bad. The feeling lingers for a moment until he remembers that her carelessness turned him into a real-world version of Stuart Little, and he decides just this once, his pertinence for being an asshole is justified. 

“Where’s your coven?” 

Her face twists up in displeasure. “Who the hell do you think I am?” 

“Someone who turns unsuspecting, helpful neighbors into tiny versions of themselves.” 

“Look,” she tells him, running a tired hand across her face. “I will fix this; it just might take me some time.” 

He wants to tell her to fuck off and storm out, but not only will that not work because the trek back to his apartment would be akin to climbing Mount Everest in his state, he also doesn’t know anyone else who could possibly fix this. The drug dealer over in apartment 3B always says he can produce a magical experience, but Murphy is not about to count on that. “Fine.” 

“Great,” Clarke responds, sounding more relieved than he thinks she has the right to. What was he going to do? Go out onto the street about and try to out her as a witch? He’s much more likely to end up as bird food. “I’m going to go make a few quick calls.” 

She disappears from view, going into the bathroom, which is the only entirely separate space in the entire apartment. In her absence, Murphy takes the opportunity to look around and is instantly horrified. He thought he was a slop. 

“How the fuck do you have so much stuff?” he yells out as loud as he can, hoping that she can hear him. 

“I don’t know,” she murmurs a few seconds later as she walks back towards him, glancing around the room as if realizing for the first time that she’s living in an episode of hoarders. 

“You better not leave me. I’ll get lost in all your shit, and then you won’t find me for a week.” 

“God, you’re dramatic,” she responds in a huff, sitting heavily in the chair across from him. She messes around with the junk littering her table for a while before eventually running out of options to distract herself from the situation. “So… what should we do?” 

“Don’t you have a standing date every night to flirt pathetically with Bellamy at the bar?” Clarke glances at the clock, her head tilting in contemplation as though she hadn’t realized the hour, and he considers if the table he’s on is high enough for the jump to kill him. He looks down, eying the dull beige of her carpet, and decides against it. Bloodstains are a bitch to get out; he’s pissed, but not that pissed. “That was a joke not, a fucking suggestion.” 

He crosses his arm, determined to stay firm, but the same glimmer stays in her eyes for the next hour, and he knows he’s fucked. Still, it’s not until nearly an hour later that they both walk into the bar, her in sundress that just reeks of desperation and him, nearly tucked into the gap between her shoulder and her neck, hidden completely from view by her hair. 

“Hi!” Bellamy greets the moment they approach the bar, reminding Murphy that Clarke isn’t the only desperate one in this dynamic. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it tonight.” 

“Why not?” Murphy responds quietly, mumbling right into her ear, so he’s sure she’s able to hear. “It’s not like she hasn’t been here every other night for the last three months.” 

“It’s not every night,” she snaps back only to cut herself short at Bellamy’s confused expression. He opens his mouth as if to ask for clarification, but Clarke continues before he gets the chance. “I mean it’s not any night— I wouldn't miss tonight… or any night.” 

Murphy cackles to himself as Clarke makes her way to her customary seat at the bar, enjoying the red flush that’s creeping up her neck. He didn’t want to come here, didn’t think he wanted a first-row seat to the disaster that, so far, he’s only had the unfortunate chance to witness from a distance. If he gets to add commentary, though, and more importantly, commentary that can’t be rebuked, that’s a totally different story. 

“I’m glad,” Bellamy says, sliding past the awkwardness a moment later as he places a glass of white wine in front of her. “I’d miss you.” 

He turns away before Clarke has the chance to respond, not that Murphy thinks she actually possesses the ability if her stuttering is anything to go by. This is even more of a train wreck up close, and it’s positively enthralling. 

“Oooh, I think he likes you,” Murphy whispers into her ear, grinning even as she shrugs her shoulder to displace him. This is so much fun that he doesn’t even care that he’ll probably lose his job over it. He can find a new job at any seedy bar, but this, right here, is once-in-a-lifetime entertainment. 

Bellamy finishes placing a glass in front of another customer and turns back towards them, shooting Clarke a smile. _Seriously, why the fuck did she think she needed a magical spell to figure out he liked her?_ Murphy would bet his entire shitty apartment with all its shitty continents that that man would marry her on the spot if she so much as hinted at wanting to. 

“You’re right,” Clarke says to him under her breath, squaring her shoulders as Bellamy moves back towards them. “I’m going to do this—” she cuts off sharply as Bellamy gets closer, and Murphy wishes that popcorn wasn’t currently the size of his head; it would complete the theatrics going on in front of him nicely. “I would—” Clarke starts say only to be cut off again, this time by a shout from across the bar. 

“Goddammit— Blake, you’re going to have to work the whole bar tonight; it looks like Murphy is a no-show, which means I need to cover in the kitchen. Fucking cockroach! I knew...” 

“I need to go deal with that,” Bellamy tells Clarke quickly before disappearing in a flourish. 

“You work here?” Clarke asks him once they are alone, and there’s so much bewilderment in her tone that he can’t even work up the will to be mad. It's not like he’s that noticeable after all. 

“Well, I certainly used to, but if the vein popping in Roan’s forehead is anything to go by, it’s not going to be a thing after tonight.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

She sounds worried, so Murphy does what he does best, shrugging nonchalantly and then continuing with heavy sarcasm in his voice. “I wasn’t interested in trying to recreate Ratatouille; no offense, but I don’t trust you around knives... or flames. Keeping you out of the kitchen is best for everyone, I'm sure.” 

He gets the feeling that she’s going to object, but thankfully, Bellamy returns before he’s forced to listen to whatever apology she was about to give him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he dismisses with a wave, only to add on at the concern on her face. “It’s fine, our line cook just didn’t show up for work today, and because he didn’t bother to let anyone know, now we all have to scramble to cover.” 

“I’m sure there’s a good reason,” Clarke offers, and Murphy doesn’t even attempt to hide his snort. 

“Yeah, sure... so, what are you doing tomorrow night?” Bellamy asks Clarke, using what is the cringiest segue ever. What she’s doing every night dufus; sitting here, pinning after you. 

“I don’t know,” Clarke responds, sipping delicately at her drink because she’s an idiot too. 

“Well,” Bellamy starts to say, rubbing his hands nervously against his pants in a way that fills Murphy with the temptation to slap him. “Would you maybe want to get dinner with me? If you’re busy, that’s fine, or if you just don’t want to—” 

“Yes!” 

“You’re busy?” 

“No,” Clarke shakes her head frantically, whipping him with her hair in the process. 

“... but you’d like to go out?” 

“Are you sure you really want this, Clarke?” Murphy asks once he manages to right himself. “He seems kind of slow.” 

“I would love to go out,” Clarke tells him quickly, smiling brightly before adding on undoubtedly for Murphy’s benefit. “It’s _exactly_ what I want.”

“Okay, then,” Bellamy responds slowly, clearly confused but not about to question it. Instead, he just grins wider, staring like the lovesick idiot that he is until the door opens, and another large crowd of customers walks in. “I have to go, and it looks like I’m going to be busy tonight, so if you want to head out whenever that’s fine; I’ll message you with details later?” 

“Sounds great.” 

Bellamy disappears after that, running around frantically in a way that amuses Murphy more than it should, considering it’s his fault. He doesn’t get the chance to come back over, only able to spare a few seconds here and there to smile lovingly in Clarke’s direction, and eventually, Murphy convinces her to call it a night. She’s finally done what she set out to do, there’s no more reason for her to hang around this dingy space. 

“We better fix this before tomorrow night,” Murphy tells her as she lowers him onto a sponge on her counter hours later, “because I am not going on that date with you; tonight was enough to scar me for life.” 

“I’m sure we will,” Clarke promises him, turning away with a yawn.

* * *

They do not figure it out, because of course not. When has the world ever been kind to him? Being reduced to this size didn’t seem particularly awful, so he didn’t consider the notion that this all was some cosmic punishment. Now he’s faced with another evening of listening to them dance around each other though, he can’t think any penance worse than that. 

“Why am I here again?” Murphy asks, trying and failing to find a comfortable position on her shoulder; she just had to wear the fucking necklace. 

“Because you’re scared of the mice in your apartment,” Clarke remarks lightly before opening the door to the restaurant. 

“I am not,” he starts to object venomously, only to kick his foot out when he feels the telltale shake of her laughing. “Those fuckers are big— and that was before I was small.” 

“I know,” she mutters, mock sympathy dripping from her tone. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the scary, scary mice.” 

“Damn straight, you will. It's your fault I’m in this mess.” 

“You could have knocked...” 

He elbows her, but all she does is chuckle again, so he settles back down in a huff. Yesterday, she was riddled with guilt, but all of that seems to have fallen away with a good night's rest because so far today, she’s been nothing short of an asshole. “I did knock.” 

“Hi! I think I have a reservation; it would be under Blake?” Clarke greets the receptionist in favor of arguing with him. 

“Yes, right this way. Your date is already here.” 

“Thanks,” Clarke responds in an annoyingly chipper voice, following after the woman but slowing her steps so that she’s far enough away to mumble back to him. “Yeah, and when people don’t answer their door, what does that mean?” 

“Fuck off,” he tells her, rolling his eyes. “I should have just let you burn yourself to a crisp. Apparently, it would have been a fitting way for you to go.” 

She lets out a humph of annoyed acknowledgement but otherwise says nothing as Bellamy comes into view, seated at a table with an unbuttoned dress shirt and a nervous smile. It's hot as hell out there; why the fuck is he wearing a long sleeve? 

“Someone’s trying to make a good impression,” Murphy sings cheerily into her ear, but once again, she doesn’t respond, her entire attention on the man in front of her. 

“You look beautiful.” 

“Thanks,” Clarke responds, tilting her head to the side to hide her blush. 

“Really? That’s all it takes?” Murphy asks, “Beautiful is so common. I’m sure he could do better; maybe try out a new adjective every now and again.” 

Clarke shrugs her shoulder as she sits, silently telling him to shut up, and he takes the hint. Pushing back against her necklace, he leans back, trying to get more comfortable; this is undoubtedly going to be a long and arduous affair, he’d like to at least not end up with a kink in his neck too. He is startled out of his restful position a few seconds later at Bellamy's strangled voice. 

“I think you’ve got something on your—” 

Bellamy’s eyes are comically large as he reaches his hand across the table to Clarke’s shoulder, but she thankfully manages to dodge out of the way. Unfortunately, he’s not detoured. He reaches again, and this time Clarke is forced to rise from her seat. “You know what, maybe this isn’t the right time; we can try again another day.” 

She turns away without another word, and Murphy can’t stop the annoying tendrils of guilt from latching onto him. As pathetic as it is, she’s been waiting for this moment for months. “Clarke...” 

“I’m fine,” she tells him sharply, brushing a hand across her eye angrily. “It was a foolish idea to try this today anyway.” 

“Well, no one ever said you had smart ideas; that’s what got us into this mess in the first place,” he says it because he’s an asshole who doesn’t handle guilt well, but then she lets out a huff of laughter and he feels slightly better. 

“Clarke, wait, please!” Bellamy calls out before they can make it to the car, and like the sucker that she is, she stops. He half expects her to toss him into the shrub beside them— is about to suggest it, not interested in a repeat of what just happened in the restaurant. Instead, she just turns around slowly to face Bellamy with him still on her shoulder because, once again, she’s a sucker. 

“It’s fine, Bellamy; we can try again another day,” Clarke tells him, doing a truly horrible impression of a reassuring smile. 

“Look, I know this sounds crazy,” Bellamy says, running a flustered hand through his hair, “but there’s something on your shoulder, and I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you without first making sure it’s gone.” 

“Wait,” Clarke responds slowly, “what do you think is on my shoulder?”

“What do you think is there?” 

“I asked you first.” 

“Oh god,” Murphy mutters to himself. “Kill me now and spare me from another second of this.” 

For a second it seems like Bellamy isn’t going to answer, but then he looks Clarke up and down, takes a deep breath, and says, “a fairy? Or no,” he squints at Clarke’s shoulder. “A gremlin?” 

“Fuck you,” Murphy retorts, moving past the shield of Clarke’s hair. 

“You’re a witch too?” Clarke calls out in disbelief, never mind the fact that they are in a very public and, not to mention, busy parking lot. 

“You,” Bellamy responds, his eyes growing wide. “Oh, okay, that makes sense actually... so you know it’s there?” 

“Well, it’s not like I did this to myself, come on, keep up Blake.” 

Bellamy’s eyes grow even larger. “Murphy... You’re a gremlin?” 

“God, I really am surrounded by idiots. I’m your perfectly average line cook who just wanted to make sure my neighbor wasn’t going to burn down the building and ended up like this.” 

“How?” Bellamy starts to ask, only to be overtaken by Clarke. 

“That’s why you knock.” 

“What?” Bellamy questions slowly, looking between the two of them warily. “Are you saying that you walked in on her casting a spell? Do you have a death wish? Only an idiot would—” 

Bellamy would surely continue if the pleased grin on Clarke’s face is any indication, but Murphy’s had enough. “Why don’t you say that a little louder? It’s not like we are in a fucking strip mall parking lot. Maybe this is normal? Should we get you two matching shirts that tell people you’re magical? 

“Okay, okay,” Clarke tells him, patting him on the head like he’s a child. “We get it; we shouldn’t have this conversation here,” she turns her attention to Bellamy. “Do you want to come back to the apartment with us?” 

“Ye!” he answers before shaking his head as though to clear the daze from it. “I can follow you?” 

“Sounds great,” Clarke says, turning towards her car, but Murphy twists so that he’s able to see Bellamy watching longingly as Clarke walks away. 

“He totally imagined you inviting him home under very different circumstances; poor man can hardly think straight,” Murphy taunts her. 

“Shut up.” 

“Which means you agree with me, which means you knew exactly what you were doing with that invitation. Way to screw with him.”

“No,” she tells him as she unlocks the car door. “It meant, shut up.” He opens his mouth, ready to argue back, but she beats him to it. “Or I’ll leave you in that bush over there, and we will be free to get up to whatever the hell we want back at the apartment.” 

“Point taken,” he says, raising his hands in a sign of peace before reaching over to mime zipping his lips. If she doesn’t want to hear his input, he’ll keep his opinions to himself. 

He manages to keep the vow, not uttering a word, through the entire drive home, meeting up with Bellamy, walking up the stairs, and entering Clarke’s apartment, but when Bellamy starts in on his third rant in 10 minutes regarding the lack of safety, Murphy can’t take it any longer.

“Okay, we get the point,” Murphy interjects in a huff. “This apartment building is a shithole, we are both well aware; can we move on to more important matters like what the fuck you are?” 

“Don’t be rude,” Clarke rebukes him, flicking him rudely in the side. “He’s a witch or warlock or whatever... right?” She turns to Bellamy uncertainty.

“Not technically.” 

“Great, we’ve found another useless person.” 

“I didn’t say that,” Bellamy tells him, running a hand through his hair. “Clarke, how much do you know about this world?” 

“Virtually nothing; my dad died when I was young, and this evidently came from his side.” 

“Okay, well then, the closest comparison for you two to understand is probably Druid.” 

“What does that—” Clarke starts to inquire, but Murphy cuts her off. They can have a history lesson once he’s back to being the right size. 

“How does that help me?” 

“I’ve got magic, just a different kind... more nature-based...” he trails off, looking at Clarke. “What was the spell you were using?” 

“You mean the one she was _trying_ to use,” Murphy corrects helpfully, causing Clarke’s hand to stutter where it reaches for the book. She glares at him, blush covering her cheeks, but ultimately hands the open tomb to Bellamy, who takes it with a raised eyebrow. 

He flips through the book, humming and awing with all the theatrics the moment calls for before closing it suddenly with a solemn expression. 

“Okay, great tree man, how do we fix this?” 

“You need to care, Murphy, to understand where Clarke was coming from and have empathy. You need to grow a heart.” 

Murphy stares at Bellamy, taking in the serious tilt to his eyes before turning his gaze to Clarke who’s looking at the other man in horror. He looks between the two of them and then proceeds to fall onto the sponge behind in with a defeated sigh, “Well, we’re fucked.” 

He closes his eyes, trying to picture a lifetime of riding on Clarke’s shoulder, listening to her and Bellamy debate who loves the other more and instantly wants to kill himself. It shouldn't be that hard, he’s the size of a doll; a single pain pill should do it, a shard of glass, or if he’s really getting desperate one day, he could simply jump off Clarke. She’s not tall by any means, but even at only 5, 3, the fall should kill him. 

“Damn, you’re dramatic,” Bellamy tells him, picking him up by the waist with no warning. “Come on, let’s go.” 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Murphy curses, but Bellamy doesn’t make any indication that he can hear, placing him on the ground in the empty space still cleared out from the day before. He steps back, mutters something in a foreign language, and waves his hand. Murphy has a split second where he’s left to wonder if Bellamy was just full of bullshit before the world suddenly goes black and he falls to the ground in a heap. 

“Seriously?” he hears Clarke. “It was _that_ easy.” 

With his eyes still closed, Murphy can’t actually see Bellamy shrug helplessly, but he’s sure all the same, that's exactly the move he made. 

“Congratulations, Clarke,” Murphy groans, sitting up and rubbing at his head. “You’re not only a witch, but a shitty witch.” 

“Hey!” she snaps back, but she doesn’t seem to be able to come up with any other argument. Unfortunately, she’s now found a partner who’s willing to feed her delusions. 

“You just need practice; I have almost an entire lifetime of doing shit like this.” 

“Right,” Murphy drawls, “And exactly how many people have you accidentally turned finger-sized."

“Well,” Bellamy responds, smirking right back at him. “The people around me tend to knock before barging in.” 

Clarke grins at Bellamy, and Murphy rolls his eyes so hard he’s likely to have lasting damage. “You two are fucking perfect for each other. Seriously, it’s sickening.” 

Instead of objecting like sane people, they just continue to grin at each other, reminding Murphy that it’s far past time to go. Unfortunately, he’s surrounded by annoyingly polite people. 

“Do you want some coffee? Or maybe—” Clarke asks somewhat hesitantly, but he doesn’t stick around to hear what other pleasantries she’s tempted to offer him, turning towards the door. 

“Nope, and nope; I’ve had enough of your company to last me a good couple of days.” He opens the door, only twisting back to look at them once he’s got a foot out in the hall. “Have fun, don’t burn the building down; I’ll see you soon.” 

“If you’re sure?” Clarke asks, even though she sounds even less eager now. 

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t burn anything,” Bellamy adds on, but he’s already out the door. Sleeping on a sponge was fun for a minute, and while it was probably more comfortable than what he has, he missed his lumpy mattress; he missed the spell of his mildew-filled apartment.

With a tired sigh, Murphy opens his door and falls into bed, not bothering to check if his place was looted. It’s been a long couple of days, and he’s exhausted, which is why when the telltale sound of furniture screeching across the floor reaches his ears, all Murphy does is reach over to put the pillow over his head. After everything, he knows better than to go downstairs and complain. He has absolutely no desire to witness whatever magic is going on in the apartment below him.


End file.
